A poem on the occasion of Wayne Rooney’s refusal to renew his contract

So Google’s got so clever it’s going to start translating poetry in its spare time. Lovely.

“Why stop there?” was my first response. “Why not get it to compose poetry as well?” But they’re a long way ahead of me.

As a pleasant side-effect, the system is also able to translate anything into poetry, allowing us to specify the genre (say, limericks or haikus), or letting the system pick the one it thinks fits best.

So I can say, “Hey Google, Throw me together a stanza or two about Wayne Rooney’s most recent travails.”

And it’ll come out with:

Well actually, At the moment, the system is too slow to be made publicly accessible. So I’ve knocked up my own (glib and hasty) Wayne Rooney poem.

When the thing they ominously call the system is up & running we’ll run it through translate, then through Google Poetics, and see if it does better.

Here’s mine:

Gimme your best shot, gimme your left hook;
I want your slings and arrows, Long Toms
and Lewis Guns, and a Ship Canal of
shellfire. A Cammell Laird of cannon balls
and two more dockyards’ worth of Dreadnoughts.
I want Lancaster Bombers, and a motorcade
of H1 Hummers, a whole damn Desert Storm
of doodlebug clusters. Then, if I’m still
standing, bring me papers. Bring me
a fountain pen and bandy numbers.
Bring me resale clauses, and between the lines
writing. Point out the spot for my cross. Then,
you’re going home in a fucking ambulence.
And I’m still not signing.